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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23326546">is this your king</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/tobylove'>tobylove (orphan_account)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>strength in sevens [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT - Stephen King</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>50 diff countries lmao, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Rewrite, Rough Sex, The US is split into like, whew chile</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 04:08:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,622</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23326546</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/tobylove</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The bad blood between two rivaling nations comes to a head after one idiot crashes the other’s wedding.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Minor or Background Relationship(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>strength in sevens [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1626412</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. grey goose</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A fic idea I had that I never finished! Formally known as Prince Edward Dies at the End.</p>
    </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>motel 6: am i the prince from a foreign land?<br/>toby: yes</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">The sunrise makes the sky a mix of dim yellows and pinks that he would find beautiful in any other circumstance. In <em>other</em> circumstances, he would wrap himself up in a blanket and go outside to watch—but the fact that he hasn’t gotten a single fucking wink of sleep all night is what’s getting to him. He thinks it’s because he’s too wired. Too anxious; too jittery and scared.</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">It’s his coronation day. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">His whole life has been leading up to this. He knows that. But that doesn’t make it suck any less. The Queen Mother, even with her failing health, has tried to delay it for years—and, if he lets her, she will try to delay it her entire life. She has put it off and put it off and <em>put it off</em> until he finally grabbed her hands and told her to let it go. He feels jaded now. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">His alarm clock displays a hologram of a little clearing with a waterfall, the tide rushing. He’s set it for 6. It’s 5:54 and he’s dreading it. The alarm will go off; the holographic clouds will break away to show the sun. And he will have to get ready.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2"><em>I’ll just lay here for six more minutes,</em> he thinks. He hates how, even in <em>other circumstances, </em>his body automatically knows when he’s supposed to be awake. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">His clock—all clocks do—ticks off the minutes and seconds and hours.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">He warms his hands up between his thighs and lays on his side.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Clocks tick off the minutes and seconds and hours. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">He’s scared. He’s <em>so</em> scared. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Clocks tick off the minutes and seconds and</span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Bill. Where’s my robe?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“I dunno,” Bill smiles. “Looking for it now.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">He stares at the gentle gracefulness of Bill, admiring him, with his long and slightly toned legs and sloping neck and easy smile. He’s not even from a neighboring country—he’s from the United Kingdom. He flew all the way out here to help him get ready for this; to support him. He’s a good friend... especially in a climate where it’s hard to make friends <em>at all. </em></span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">He admires Bill and wonders if he likes being married. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">He, personally, knows that he won’t... and doesn’t think he ever will. Because marriages are a transaction. A peace treaty. He remembers something his own dear father had said to him once:<em> “Well, Ed. I wasn’t too crazy about your mom at first. But I grew to love her.”</em> Nobody in the CNA gets married out of love. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">He felt trapped when Myra’s parents browbeat him to do this. Like a rabbit caught in a snare. He had begged and pleaded with the Queen Mother not to make him do this, <em>please</em> don’t make him do this; he’ll be her little boy forever (and with these words, she had smiled)—but she had grit her teeth said that this would help foreign relations. They were already on thin ice with Rhode Island anyway. He thought he saw tears standing in her eyes. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Marriages are a <em>lie</em>. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Found it,” Bill says. He comes around and drapes it over his shoulders. He even fastens the little clasp for him. It’s a red coronation robe, with white fur and gold trimming and a long train. “You look <em>good</em>, Ed.” He has a little smile on his face.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Yeah? Well I don’t <em>feel</em> it.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Bill chuckles. “You’re getting in your head, man. It’s really not that bad. It’ll be over before you know it. Then you guys don’t even have to <em>look</em> at each other. <em>And</em> you don’t go to war with Rhode Island. See? Everybody’s happy.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Bill,” he starts, and he almost stops asking his question, for fear of losing his nerve. “Do you <em>like</em> being married?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Bill smiles even wider, even laughs a little. But he never answers the question.</span>
</p><hr/><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">The coronation is a national event. It’s aired on TV, and any and everybody who is able to watch it in person sits in the crowded space. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">He feels like the entire CNA has its eyes on him right now. Some countries can’t say they’re pleased. But <em>his</em> nation, at least, is happy for two reasons. The <em>first</em> being that they haven’t had a king in almost 20 years. His dad, Franklin II (his grandfather had been Franklin I) had died unexpectedly—leaving his kingdom and his wife and son. The <em>second</em> being: they’re sick of being under the rule of the Queen Mother. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">And here he is: about to become Edward I, King of New Yorktown. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">The nation is excited. They like him. They’re ready.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Everybody gets in their places. He stands at the altar (like a good little boy, he thinks) and looks at the thousands of excited and/or upturned faces. People are cheering, waving signs with his face on them. Waving signs that say <em>LONG LIVE THE KING </em>or <em>WE LOVE THE KING.</em> He sees sovereigns from other nations in the first couple of rows. He sees Myra’s parents, who look disgustingly pleased. And he sees the Queen Mother, her hand on the handle of her cane.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Her lip is trembling. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Myra, the Duchess of Rhode Island, walks down the aisle in a huge wedding dress that’s all tulle and frills. He thinks that she looks like a huge white chocolate Lindor truffle, and wants to laugh. Then he notices that she’s crying, with mascara streaming down her face in long, black streams... and he wants to <em>bolt</em>.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">The Queen Mother, pleading with her eyes: <em>Please don’t do this, Eddie Bear. To hell with them. We’ll go to war. You’re my little boy forever. </em></span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">He realizes how much the Duchess <em>looks like</em> the Queen Mother, even down to the trembling dimples in their chins, and wants to faint. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">The Queen’s eyes, still pleading: Please, <em>don’t.</em></span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">When Myra makes it down to the altar with him, she smiles and grabs both of his hands. He forces a smile back. She seems like a sweet girl, and she does have soft features that make her pretty. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">(y’know what, sure Mommy, I’ll back out, war doesn’t seem so bad)</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2"> <em>(let me grow the fuck up already!)</em> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">He thinks he can grow to love her.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">The camera crew is eating it up. They think that the hand holding really makes the ratings soar. People may not think he’s a dictator if they think the wedding is sweet. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Don’t cry, Marty,” he tells her. “You’re beautiful.” But that only makes the dimple in her chin worse. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">There are five of the sovereigns in attendance that New Yorktown has at least <em>decent</em> relations with. Of course, there’s Bill sitting in the first few rows; that slight smile is still planted on his face. There’s King Stanley IV of the Republic of Georgia (apparently the III is his grandfather) sitting right beside him, with his wife, Queen Patricia. Both of them have feathers sewn into their capes. There’s Queen Beverly of the Republic of Illinois, whose smiling and redheaded and beautiful. There’s Prince Benjamin II of New Braskaland, with his hands tucked neatly in his lap, and a smile. And there’s Prince Michael I of Fair Maine—who, when he looks at him, shows off perfect white teeth that contrast his dark skin.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Beverly is also married. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">She came alone. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Myra is stumbling through her vows, almost choking on tears, and he can barely pay attention to her—he keeps on glancing at Stanley, this weird Southern king, who keeps on anxiously turning to look at the door... as if he has a feeling some storm is brewing. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">And he finds out on the second time that he’s right, because he has </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">(the shine?)</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">some amazing premonition—because the storm comes. The storm comes right through the doors. And Prince (soon to be King) Edward of New Yorktown already knows who the <em>fuck</em> he is. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">It’s Prince Reggie or Ryan I (III?) of California—and quite frankly, he can’t remember what the dude’s name is exactly, because he doesn’t fucking care. Prince Reggie-or-Ryan comes stumbling through the door, his crown caught in his glasses, his shirt undone. He’s giggling. He comes staggering through the doors with a bottle in his hand—and Eddie realizes, a little belatedly, that he’s shit-faced drunk. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">His nation has <em>terrible</em> relations with California. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Oh, fuck,” Stanley says.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">The camera crew are muttering under their breath.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“...So, I walk into the place, right?” Reggie-or-Ryan is saying. He’s brandishing the bottle of Grey Goose like a microphone. “And I realize that it’s a fucking wedding. I walked into a fucking <em>wedding, </em>guys. What type of shit is that?” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Just <em>what</em> do you think you’re doing!?” the Queen Mother yells. She sounds indignant.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Myra’s tears seem like they’ve turned from ecstatic to mortified. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“And I see my friend, right?” Reggie-or-Ryan says. He’s still droning on in some weird make-believe. “And I get all excited and I go: ‘Yo, Stan the Man!’ And he goes: ‘Yo, waddup...’ in a perfect world. If he wasn’t so embarrassed by me <em>crashing a wedding!</em>”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Stanley stands up and goes to put his hands on Reggie-or-Ryan’s shoulders. “Richie, dude... you’ve gotta <em>leave</em>.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“But in all actuality, he tries to <em>kick me out!</em>” the Prince of California—whose neither Reggie nor Ryan; <em>apparently</em>, he’s Richie—continues. His voice hikes up an octave on the last syllable. “He’s all like: ‘you should leave.’ And I’m like ‘okay...’ and <em>right</em> as I’m headed out the door, I see who’s even getting married.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">He smiles. His eyes flash with mischief. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">He runs right up the aisle and to the altar. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“It’s little King Eddie of New Yorktown,” he mutters—and something about the way he says it fills him up with some emotion he can’t place. He smells the vodka on Richard’s breath. “He’s so cute, that <em>shit</em>, <em>I</em> decide to marry him. You may kiss the groom! Don’t mind if I do.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">And then the idiot dips him and kisses him on the lips. It takes a few stunned seconds to push him away.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Myra bursts into miserable tears. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Cut the tape!” the camera crew yells. “Cut the tape!”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">And he doesn’t know what’s worse: the fact that this wasn’t only televised to his nation, but to <em>the entire Confederate Nations of America; </em>everybody’s stunned gasps, the Queen Mother yelling: “Don’t let him leave! He’s not getting off the hook! Don’t let him leave!” the cameramen scrambling... or the fact that, in his daze, he touches two fingers up to his lips. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Richie: he’s a very freaky boy, don’t forget his mama, first you get his name, then you get his number<br/>Stan: L E A V E<br/>Richie: then you get some brain in the front seat of the hummer</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. eat it</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>on this installment of late night uploads:<br/>whether he’s beauty or the beast this man still just comes into ppl’s rooms<br/>w i t h o u t p e r m i s s i o n</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">With camera people scrambling around and women crying (his <em>mother</em> crying), Eddie should feel that this is the worst day of his life. </p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">He <em>should</em>, yes—but there’s a holistic part of him that can’t bring himself all the way there. He’s angry, no doubt. Even more than that. He’s <em>pissed</em>. Not because he wanted to get married </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">(because marriages are a trap),</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">but because now that he’s still <em>un</em>married, it’s going to be a little more grief for him to be crowned as the king. Even though it fills him with a special kind of fear he doesn’t feel from anything else, he knows that his people need him. He already knows what type of king he wants to be: softer. Softer than his mother. You see, people need to be ruled; people need direction. But what they need is <em>constructive</em> direction, not dictatorship. Dictatorship breeds resentment and fear. He doesn’t want people to fear him. He doesn’t want to be anything like her.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">But despite his anger, he feels the laughter trying to bubble up to the surface of him—because honestly, this is ridiculous. You’ve got these people scrambling around and trying to erase footage, these two women screaming and crying, and this man still staggering around the altar, still trying to perform his drunken improv. It’s <em>absurd</em>. And then, even worse, he remembers that Myra looks like a huge Lindor truffle, and almost loses his composure completely.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">He lets out a shaky giggle... but then the Queen Mother looks at him sharply, and the laughs quickly die in him. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Stanley takes his plastered friend by the shoulders and mutters something in his ear—and the latter is becoming decreasingly verbose; he’s been reduced to incoherent slurring. Eddie sees the alarm on Stanley’s face, and suddenly, <em>he</em> feels alarmed</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">(how much did this fucker <em>drink?</em>)</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">but tries to push those feelings down. Stanley and Michael grab either side of that drunken bastard (Prince Richard of California, <em>whom his country has terrible relations with</em>) and both look at Eddie with wide eyes.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Is there anywhere we can put him?” Stanley is asking. Then, as his face grows hot, he mumbles: “I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“It’s fine.” He sees Michael flinch and he feels bad. He doesn’t mean to sound so calloused. “Here, he can sleep in one of my guest bedrooms.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Great,” Stanley and Michael say together. They seem really close, and a thought quickly flashes in Eddie’s mind,</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">(i think they’d be a great couple if people got married for love)</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">but he wipes it out of his head as quickly as it appears. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Richard is still trying at it. “And then Sandy... said I wasn’t... what... <em>sucks</em>, y’know?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Eddie looks at Stanley. “You’re friends, right?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“We are,” Stanley tells him. “Have been for a long time.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Does he usually get this drunk?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“No,” Stanley admits, his mouth formed into a thin, hard line. “That’s what scaring me.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Eddie isn’t normally the type of person that tries to find the humor in places where humor’s not really there, but that was the first thing he tried in order to hide is anger and disappointment. Now he can’t find any humor in this <em>at all.</em> Not only does he think this man needs therapy, but now he also has to deal with the fallout and repercussions that a situation like this is going to put him in. Rhode Island is almost certainly going to take this as a slight and try to wage war on them. Because that’s <em>totally</em> what he needs: a war in the first few months of his reign. In since this was televised, he—and by extension, New Yorktown—is going to be the laughing stock of the CNA for a long time. Myra isn’t going to be his wife. And, the worst of all: the Queen Mother is going to be angry. Eddie can’t be </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">(happier?)</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">any more miserable. </span>
</p>
<hr/><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">The eight of them—Eddie, Richard, the five other sovereigns, and Queen Patricia—deftly avoid all of the yelling and screaming andhead back to the palace. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">As promised, he’s let Stanley and Michael stick Richard in one of the guest bedrooms, whose now unconscious—and Stanley is doting after him like he’s a newborn baby. He took the glasses off Richard’s face and neatly folded the bows in, and set them aside. He’s taken off his crown and set it with the glasses. He’s re-buttoned his shirt. He’s turned his head to the side. He’s covered him with a blanket. Even through Stanley’s crisp and calculated way he does this, Eddie can feel the love in his movements. Stanley is treating this as if he’s doctoring up his drunken older brother. Eddie knows that he, himself, would do the same for Bill.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Is he gonna be okay?” Patricia asks. She’s got short sandy-blonde hair, with a high bang that’s swooped to the side. Like Beverly, she’s very pretty. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Stanley shakes his head. “I hope so, babylove.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“I hope so, too.” That’s Bill, whose leaning against the frame of the guest bedroom door with an ease that Eddie is envious of. He grins a little. “California needs their King, y’know.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">(wait—<em>this dumbass is the fucking king?</em>)</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Benjamin laughs to add to Bill’s smile, and it’s like he takes the thought right out of Eddie’s head. “He’s the <em>King</em> of California?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“I think so,” Michael is saying. Like Bill and Benjamin, his mood is jovial. Eddie wishes that he could find some joy </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">(or <em>humor</em>)</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">in this fucking situation. “Remember when he was all over the news? He got engaged a while back. To that chick from Washington Country. Her name is, uh...”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Sandra,” Stanley says. His voice cuts through the room. Everybody whips their heads to look at him, and all of them are silent for a while. Eddie shivers. “He calls her Sandy...” Stanley continues, almost sounding drunk himself with the slow and methodical way he says it. His eyebrows furrow. “Oh God, Rich, what <em>happened?</em>”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Is he still breathing?” Beverly chimes in. “We should try to wake him up.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Stanley looks at her and nods—and then, he starts lightly slapping the sides of his friend’s face. “Rich. Richie, wake up. Richie—”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2"><em>“M’up,” </em>Richard mutters, his tone sleepy and irritated. “I’m up. Stan?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Yeah, it’s me. You good?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“<em>Hell no.</em> I feel like I got ran over by a truck, shit on by a dog, and then ran over again.” And amazingly, he chuckles.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Damn. All of that?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“All of that, man. Where <em>am</em> I?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">(where are you? are you <em>serious? </em>you’re in NYT, <em>and you ruined my life!</em>)</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“New Yorktown.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2"><em>“New Yorktown?”</em> Richard echoes. “The fuck I’m all the way out <em>here</em> for?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“I dunno, Rich,” Stanley says. “You tell me.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">The most egregious part of it all, Eddie thinks, is the way that Richard’s eyes flash with the comprehension of why he’s not in California... and with the understanding that he still doesn’t know the answer to Stanley’s question.</span>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Nice room you’ve got here,” Richard is saying. He’s still slurring, but he’s sobering up. He’s put his glasses back on. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">A few hours have passed since the ordeal, and Eddie can already feel the aftereffects. Myra and her folks have flown back to Rhode Island with the lovely vow of never letting their daughter get married to Sonia’s “fucking disaster of a son”—and the even <em>lovelier</em> promise to “make him pay for embarrassing their daughter”. He had heard bits and pieces of that conversation through the door</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">(“But I still wanna marry him,” Myra tearfully said to her parents. “I <em>love</em> him!”)</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">and he had heard the Queen Mother’s even harsher words to make them back off. And, even worse, the media is already eating it up.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">
    <em><strong>EDWARD I OF NEW YORKTOWN IN A GAY LOVE AFFAIR? MARRIAGE ENDS BEFORE IT EVEN BEGINS.</strong> </em>
  </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">How <em>embarrassing</em>.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">He huffs. “I didn’t say you could come in.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Oh, but why not, Eds?” Even though this man is a fool, it is a relief to hear him talk and actually make some sense. He puts a hand up to his chest like he’s mortally wounded. “I’m sure your bed has enough room for us both.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Okay—for starters, don’t fuckin’ call me that. And two: if you get in my bed, I’ll fuckin’ <em>kill</em> you.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Consider me dead, then,” Richard says, with a smile... and plops himself right on the bed, where he doesn’t belong. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">He’s really handsome—especially when he smiles. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Which is all the time.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“You fucking idiot.” Eddie can feel his temple already starting to throb. “You <em>suck</em> at following directions.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Richard is grinning now. “I don’t feel dead yet, Eddie.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">He sighs. “At least you got one thing right.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">He sits on the bed, putting a couple of feet in between them—because, honestly, what else is he supposed to do? He was supposed to get married and have his coronation today. Now that that’s all ruined, his itinerary is empty. Richard suddenly leans back on the bed, giggling and fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. Eddie looks at him, his face hot with surprise.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2"> <em>“What the hell are you doing?”</em> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Stan said that I kissed you,” Richard says—and at first, his brain won’t let him understand how the two things correlate. “Is that true, Eds?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Yes, you jackass,” he almost yells. He can feel the anger rising up in him again. <em>“You ruined my fucking life!”</em></span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Don’t be so dramatic, my dear,” Richard says, his voice low. “You didn’t even <em>wanna</em> get married to her.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“How do <em>you</em> fucking know? I—”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“And that kiss. You <em>liked</em> it. Didn’t you?”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Shut up.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“You liked it,” Richard teases. “Let’s do it again, then. And I’ll kiss <em>more</em> than just your <em>face,</em> honeybun. I’m horny.” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“Shut <em>up!</em>”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“C’mon, Eds!” He’s whining now, even though it sounds disingenuous. “I’m all laid out, presenting myself to you, and you—”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Eddie snaps. He takes his hand and cups it underneath Richard’s jaw... and he can practically <em>see</em> all the joke leave Richard’s body. He uses his fingers to grab either side of his face—hard—and tilts his head up, so they can look each other in the eyes. He can feel stubble digging into his palm, a little belatedly... but somehow, it only adds to the appeal. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">“I am so fucking <em>sick</em> of you,” he hisses. He shakes Richard’s head quickly, his hair disheveling. “Shut up. Do you hear me? Shut the fuck <em>up</em>.”</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">With crooked glasses and smooshed cheeks and little boy’s eyes, he answers: “Yes, Sir.” </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">And, God—Eddie swears, from those two syllables alone, that he’s drowning; he swears that in <em>different circumstances, </em>he would shove his cock down Richard’s throat and make him literally eat his words. He feels painfully hard already. But there are six other people here in this palace, <em>and</em> Richard is still drunk. Drunk people can’t fully consent. His mother may get her rocks off on taking advantage of people, but he does not. He’s nothing like her. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2"> <em>He’s nothing like her.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">He lets go of Richard’s face. “Go back to sleep,” he mutters.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Richard obliges.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>the rest of the losers, on a news site: “gay love affair”. LMAO</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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